It started like any other Tuesday at the office. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the quiet chatter of my colleagues a comforting background noise. I was in the middle of reviewing the quarterly financial reports at my desk when a soft tap on the glass door caught my attention. There she stood, a young girl, no older than ten, with wide, pleading eyes. Her clothes were worn, her hair tied in a messy ponytail. In her hand was a crumpled envelope, the number $2.50 scribbled hastily across it.

She asked if she could come in, and despite the awkwardness of the situation, I nodded. She stepped inside, clutching the envelope tightly. “It’s for my brother,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

I glanced around the office, my colleagues either oblivious or pretending to be. “What do you need?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Her eyes darted to the vending machine in the corner, and then back to me. “Just… just a box of milk.”

I felt the room shift slightly, as if the air had thickened. The envelope crinkled in her hand, a small but powerful reminder of her desperation.

“I… let me see what I can do,” I replied, standing up and walking over to the vending machine. The soft hum of the machine filled the silence as I fumbled for change. My mind raced with questions, but I kept them to myself.

As the milk dropped into the retrieval door, I handed it to her, watching as her face lit up with a relieved smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice stronger now.

She turned to leave, but I felt a tug at my conscience. “Wait,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Do you want to sit for a moment? Get warm?”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with a mixture of hope and caution. “Okay,” she nodded, and I gestured to the chair by my desk.

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